


If I Keep My Eyes Closed

by ObsidiansChild



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Recreational Drug Use, there's a plot if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25137937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidiansChild/pseuds/ObsidiansChild
Summary: A slip of the tongue from Eliot leaves Quentin with a painful problem.
Relationships: Eliot Waugh/Original Male Character(s), Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 14
Kudos: 214





	If I Keep My Eyes Closed

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back! This was just a fun one-shot to help me kind of "let go" of my last series. A huge thanks to AutumnEnnui for her help as beta, and for the title!

Eliot found it hard not to grin as he pulled Ethan into his bedroom that night, the door closing as he was pushed back against it, his lips captured in a filthy kiss. The room was pitch black, so Eliot distractedly flicked his fingers, turning his bedside lamp on as he led Ethan towards the chair in the corner of his room. He’d take care of the boy--he wasn’t that big of an asshole--but he’d brought him up here for one very specific reason.

Eliot playfully pushed Ethan away from him, falling back into the chair and reaching up for Ethan’s hand, pulling him to his knees as his hands moved to unbuckle his own belt. He’d already asked for this downstairs, so there was no reason to play coy, and he was pleased when Ethan batted his hands away, taking over in opening his pants and pulling his cock out. “Well, get right to work then,” Eliot chuckled, petting at the man’s long, silky hair as he bit his own lip in anticipation. His pretty hair was the only reason he’d asked him up here, so he planned to enjoy the feel of it through his fingers. 

Ethan smiled, looking nothing like the vision in Eliot’s mind, so he tugged on the man’s hair gently to remind him of the reason he’d been invited. 

“Bossy,” Ethan teased, his voice all wrong, but he dipped down obediently to tongue at the head of his cock and Eliot’s eyes rolled with pleasure. 

Slowly, Eliot let himself drift into the sensation of a wet mouth on him and soft strands of hair between his fingers. He moved against the thumbs pressing down against his hips, imagined the fingers sturdier, the hands broader. The molly he’d allowed Margo to slip past his lips downstairs was working to help his imagination along, and he moaned when he pictured Quentin’s face as he’d seen it just an hour before, flushed with alcohol and grinning shyly at whatever debauched thing Margo had whispered in his ear to tease him with.

Eliot curled up enough to get both hands in Ethan’s hair, combing through it and gently fisting it within his fingers before letting it fall away. The blow job itself was hardly remarkable, but it didn’t matter. If anything, it only helped to complete the fantasy; because, if Quentin had never given one, he could hardly expect to be skilled at it, right? So really, it was perfect. Or--as perfect as he was ever going to get. 

The molly, the alcohol, and the feel of Ethan’s hair in his hands was working Eliot up nicely and he was soon gripping gently at the back of the man’s neck, pulling him closer, pulling him  _ in. _ The man hummed his consent and Eliot smiled dazedly as he guided his motions by tugging at Ethan’s hair. Oh, this was  _ perfect. _

Well. Almost.

Ethan seemed happy to let Eliot steer and it was working for Eliot too; soon he was gasping for air, fucking into Ethan’s mouth as deeply as he dared, the sounds of his own harsh breathing and the spit-slick sliding of his cock in a warm mouth pushing him close to the edge. 

“Oh, you’re doing so good for me,” he whispered, barely aware he was even speaking, just  _ lost  _ in it. “Taking me so well. I’m going to make you feel so good after you make me come, baby.” Hearing a muffled little whimper in response, Eliot smiled tenderly, running one of his hands through the loose strands of hair as he tugged with the other that was fisted around the rest of it. He felt fingers encircle the base of his cock, twisting almost artfully as a tongue swept over the head of him. “Jesus Christ,  _ Quentin.” _

Eliot felt a slow slide against his cock and then there was a soft, wet  _ pop _ as Ethan released him, and Eliot let go of his hair as the man leaned back, glaring up at him and sneered, “What the fuck?”

For just a moment, he was confused. What the fuck  _ what? _

Then, he realized.

Oh. Shit. 

Oh,  _ fuck. _

A panicked giggle escaped Eliot’s lips before he could clamp them shut. He tried to think of anything to say, any excuse that would save the moment, and if not the moment, possibly his _entire_ _reputation_. “Hey, so--”

“Save it,” Ethan growled, leaving the room so quickly he was nearly a blur. He didn’t even close the door behind him, leaving Eliot to tuck himself back into his unbuttoned pants and do it himself. 

Fuck, what had he done?

There was still a party going on downstairs. Eliot couldn’t hear it due to the silencing wards he’d erected long ago around his room, but he knew it couldn’t be very far past midnight. What if Ethan went downstairs and said something? 

What if he said something to  _ Quentin?  _

Taking a deep breath, Eliot tried to calm himself. There was nothing he could do if Ethan talked. He could only plan around it, try to come up with some explanation. Making light of his frequent intoxication was old hat for him. Surely he could come up with something?

He couldn’t even take this to Margo. She was already suspicious of his lingering infatuation with Q, and he wasn’t about to give her more ammunition. 

Eliot readied himself for bed, the familiar routine helping soothe him just enough to not completely freak out. There was nothing he could do but try to carry out some kind of damage control once he wasn’t high as fuck. And that would have to wait until morning. 

There was also the chance that Ethan would be too embarrassed himself to talk any shit. He was fairly positive no one liked to be confused for someone else during sex, but he had no experience to draw on for that, and he’d seen a lot of weird kinks in his day. He supposed it could go either way.

A knock sounded on his door, and Eliot was tempted to hide in his bathroom before deciding he was not prepared to stoop that low. He hurriedly shrugged on a robe and moved to answer it.

And  _ of course _ it was Quentin.

Eliot barely stopped himself from slamming the door in his friend’s face. Had Ethan gone straight downstairs to humiliate him? He was too high for this. “Q! Um, fancy meeting you here.”

Quentin looked up at him, his expression teetering between concern and amusement. “Yeah, sorry. That guy you were with said I should check on you?”

“Oh?” 

“Yeah, he seemed, uh, pretty worried, but--” Quentin’s eyes darted downwards, and Eliot realized he’d barely pulled his robe together before answering the door. Q always got twitchy when he bared too much skin; he was such an adorable little prude. “You seem fine?” 

Eliot’s eyebrows rose as Quentin suddenly jerked in the doorway, wincing. “Ow,  _ fuck.”  _

“Everything okay?”

Quentin frowned towards the floor, still looking uncomfortable. “Yeah, I think so. Random pain, I guess.”

“Sounds like one of us should get checked out, but I assure you, I’ve never been better.” Quentin nodded, grimacing, and Eliot’s teasing smile fell just a little. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Just a cramp,” he answered quickly, flashing a brief, incredibly false smile Eliot’s way. “Um, goodnight.”

Quentin was gone in a flash and Eliot shook his head, closing the door and letting his robe fall from his shoulders. He wasn’t sure if Ethan had meant to scare him with that and be done with it, or if his little prank meant something worse was waiting for him later. Eliot, however, was not about to allow himself to feel threatened by some random fuck. 

Switching the light off, he practically threw himself into bed, aware he was pouting, but with no one around to witness it he felt it hardly mattered. It didn’t seem fair this was his punishment for trying to enjoy himself. It had been a genius idea! It wasn’t as if he could have asked Quentin to come upstairs himself. No, he’d ruined that months ago by befriending him, of all fucking things.

The worst part was, he couldn’t even regret that. He’d never really had friends before Brakebills, and he didn’t even really consider Margo a friend; they were beautifully undefinable,  _ beyond _ . Eliot hadn’t really had a male friend, not since middle school. There were guys he’d ignored, and guys he’d fucked and then ignored, and he’d been content with that until Quentin had stumbled into his life. 

But being Quentin’s friend had definitely complicated the fucking him part. Instead of devising creative ways to get into his pants, he found himself wanting to  _ talk  _ to Quentin after a long day. He enjoyed being able to make him laugh, especially when he was in one of his sour moods. He didn’t even mind dragging him out of bed and forcing food into him during his depressive episodes, when he would have let nearly anyone else rot.

There were also other--complications. Like how much Eliot enjoyed playing with Quentin’s hair when he allowed it, or how it thrilled him when Quentin rested his head on his shoulder sometimes just before he went upstairs to bed. How he’d quickly catalogued all of Quentin’s complicated expressions, or how even when he was being boring as death, Eliot still liked to hear the sound of his voice, babbling on about magical theory, or his philosophy bullshit, or fucking Star Trek. It didn’t matter. 

He just  _ liked  _ Quentin.

Unfortunately, liking someone beyond their physical attributes was still somewhat new territory for Eliot, and he didn’t quite know how to work sex into the equation. Because he very much liked Quentin’s physical attributes, too. And the longer he waited, the more his confusion about the whole situation grew. 

Margo had accused him of having a crush on Quentin, as if he’d ever stoop so low. He’d rolled his eyes at the very idea, highly offended, but…

What was it, if not a crush?

Groaning, Eliot grabbed his spare pillow and shoved it over his face.

*****

When he awoke the next morning Eliot groaned again, squeezing his eyes shut against the bright sunlight streaming through his gauzy curtains. Rolling onto his stomach, he pulled a blanket over his head, wanting nothing more than to sleep the day away. But it was Saturday. Margo would be expecting breakfast and if he flaked it would only give her a reason to question him. He didn’t need that.

Eliot took his time getting ready for the day, making sure every curl lay perfectly and choosing his softest polo to pair with one of his tightest pairs of navy pants. If he was going to be humiliated today, he was going to look like a fucking wet dream for it, at least.

Making his way downstairs, he found the common room still empty and enjoyed the rare silence as he retrieved everything needed to make bacon and omelettes. He was dicing peppers when he heard footsteps approaching the kitchen, and turned to see Margo leaning in the doorway. “‘Morning, bitch.”

Eliot smiled. “Good morning, Bambi. I hope eggs are okay.”

She smirked, walking towards the counter to be closer to him. “I’m down for whatever. You should make some for Q, though.”

“He’s awake?”

She nodded. “I heard him scurrying around in the library. Kid doesn’t look like he’s slept at all.”

“Well, okay,” Eliot replied, slightly puzzled, but he cracked a few more eggs into the mixing bowl before continuing to dice the peppers.

“So, what happened with pretty boy last night?” she asked, and even though Margo’s tone was perfectly casual, Eliot felt himself tense. “He didn’t look happy when he left.”

The lie came to Eliot’s lips faster than he could have hoped. “Well, you know. I  _ did  _ have a few too many, and things…”, he sighed for dramatic effect, scooping the peppers onto the blade of his knife and letting them fall into the bowl. “I may have failed to rise to the occasion, is all.”

He felt immediate guilt for the hint of sympathy in Margo’s eyes. “Honey, you’ve got to learn your limits.”

“I know and promise to do better in the future,” he said airily, taking an onion in hand and cutting through its center. “But there will be other parties, and other pretty boys. Possibly even tonight.”

“True,” she said. “And maybe pick one not so fucking weird this time?”

Eliot’s brow arched as he looked away from his chopping. “Weird?”

“Did Q not tell you?” 

“He just said Ethan was ‘concerned’ about me,” he recalled. 

Margo rolled her eyes. “Jesus. No, he was all over Quentin. I honestly thought for a second you’d grown an actual pair and sent the guy down for him to join.”

Eliot was  _ not  _ going to blush over the image that sprung to mind, but Christ, what a thought. “Oh? Well, he’s free to hit on whoever he wants, but Q didn’t mention it, no.”

“Yeah, but it was weird. He grabbed Q’s arm and the whole time he was talking to him, he kept  _ touching  _ him. Almost, like, poking him? I was about to go ask what his fucking problem was, but he finally stopped and left.”

“Yeah, that does sound weird.” Even knowing more than Margo did about the situation, it seemed odd. Maybe he’d been hitting on Quentin in retaliation and had just gone about it strangely? Or maybe he’d just been fucked up. Without seeing it for himself, Eliot really couldn’t guess. 

Margo wandered off to make drinks for their meal and herd Quentin into the dining area. Eliot pushed bacon and omelettes onto plates and carried them to the table to find Quentin with a stack of books next to him, looking miserably tired. “Jesus, what’s got you going this time?” Eliot asked as he set the plates down.

“Hm? Oh.” Quentin glanced towards the books. “Just, um, research.”

Intrigued by the halting tone of Quentin’s voice, Eliot reached across the table to turn the stack his way, glancing over the titles.  _ Inverignon’s Magical Maladies, Blights and Ill Omens, The Incomplete Compendium of Curses, v. XIII… _

“Fuck, Q, who pissed you off?” Eliot chuckled softly, but he couldn’t quite keep the shock from his voice. 

Quentin frowned, chewing on a piece of bacon. “No one. I said it was research.”

“That’s some heavy research,” he replied, but decided to leave it alone. If Quentin wanted to know how to make someone miserable with magic, it was none of his business, and if a small part of him whispered that Quentin needed to be protected from such things, that he could  _ hurt  _ himself--well, he could just shove that part down until it suffocated. Easy enough.

“C’mon, El, let the boy curse Penny and move on,” Margo said, and Eliot realized he was still staring at the books. He snatched his eyes away, attempting to smile.

“I’m not cursing Penny,” Quentin grumbled. “Jesus, can’t someone just  _ read?” _

Margo shrugged. “I wouldn’t snitch. The guy’s hot, but he’s a total dick.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Not that I couldn’t work with that.”

Eliot laughed. “Right?”

Quentin looked between the two of them, fork in hand. “Wait, you both think  _ Penny’s  _ hot?”

“Yeah, we have eyes,” Eliot replied, sipping at his mimosa. “And he  _ is  _ a dick, don’t get me wrong, but it works for him.”

Quentin’s face was shifting into that bitchy, sullen expression Eliot hated himself for finding so hot. Q could get fucking unbearable, and Eliot would find himself wanting to bend him over the furniture just to wipe the look from his face. 

“Yeah,” Margo agreed, eyes sparkling. “Something about it just makes me wanna break him.”

“Not me,” Eliot said, making sure to keep Quentin’s face visible in the corner of his eye. “I’d be on my knees in a hot second. Yes,  _ sir.” _

Quentin breathed out through his nose, his lips barely more than a thin line. “I can’t believe either of you w--” 

Eliot’s hand stilled in the motion of resting his glass back on the table, his brow furrowing as he watched Quentin’s face crumple in--pain? “Q?”

Quentin hissed air between his teeth, his eyes squeezing shut. 

“Q, what the fuck?” Margo cried, shoving her chair back to stand from her seat. 

“It’s--fine,” Quentin ground out, “just give me a second.” He began breathing deeply, in and out, and Eliot remembered to set his glass down, his eyes wide as he watched him relax bit by bit. 

“What the fuck happened?” Eliot asked.

Quentin shook his head. “I don’t know. I keep getting these--pains? Since last night. But I don’t feel sick or anything. It just hurts.”

Eliot blinked, remembering how Quentin had scurried off the night before, claiming a cramp of some sort. “How many?”

“Just, like, four now, I think. Wait, five. One woke me up when I tried sleeping last night.” 

Eliot stood from his seat, rounding the table and casting a Mann Reveal to peer through the frame of his fingers. His eyebrows rose high at the definite aura of magic radiating from Quentin’s body in flickering hues of red. He stepped closer, his brow twisting as he watched the magic race in small, interconnecting lines over Quentin’s skin, mimicking veins. What the  _ fuck?  _

Dropping the spell, Eliot caught Quentin’s chin in his hand, his fingers tracing over his cheekbone as he looked for any outward sign of sickness. He didn’t appear paler than usual, but blood magic nearly always caused illnesses of some sort. He didn’t know what else to look for, though.

Quentin shivered away from him suddenly, his hand balling into a fist on the table. “Uh, maybe don’t touch me?” he asked, barely more than a whisper.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Eliot told him, almost reaching out to lay a hand on his shoulder and stopping himself. “We should, uh, get you to the infirmary.”

“El, what did you see?” Margo asked, her brow furrowed deeply. 

“Um, a blood curse? I think. That’s how I remember it being described, anyway.” He’d always had a mild interest in the history of magic, finding the class easier to sit through than most. Blood curses were ancient, and rarely used anymore. 

“Can the infirmary cure a blood curse?” she demanded. Eliot shrugged because how the fuck was he supposed to know? “And who the fuck at Brakebills knows how to cast one?” She looked to Quentin, “Who’d you piss off?”

“What? Nobody!” he cried, leaning away from her. 

“This started last night?” Eliot sighed. “The cottage was full of people, we’d never narrow it down. Did you talk to anyone, have an argument about something?” 

Quentin’s gaze turned inward as he tried to recall, and Eliot could only hope this predicament hadn’t started over some fight about goddamn  _ Narnia  _ with some other nerd. “I-I talked Alice for a little bit. Margo. Josh and Victoria.” He perked up a bit. “And that guy that asked me to check on you.”

“Ethan?”

Quinten shrugged. “I didn’t know his name, but I guess?”

Margo was suddenly wagging her finger towards Quentin, a look of _a-ha!_ on her face. “And that _thing_ he was doing!” She reached out at Quentin, poking the bend of his elbow, on the side of his neck, the back of his hand.

“Yeah, like, what the fuck was that?” Quentin asked. “I thought he’d had too many of Josh’s brownies.”

Eliot squinted thoughtfully. How would Ethan Perry, a second year Nature student, know fucking  _ blood magic?  _

Not that Eliot was in any way certain that’s what had occurred; he knew nothing about blood curses. But the poking did sound suspicious, and it made sense, didn’t it? Eliot had called out Quentin’s name and Ethan had retaliated somehow. 

Which made this Eliot’s fault. 

“Okay, um. I’ll go find Ethan. See if there’s some way to reverse this.” And possibly dent the man’s face in for him. 

Quentin looked up at him in horror, his face turning beet red. What the fuck? “W-Why don’t I go? I mean, he cast it on me, right? Maybe he can just remove it if I ask?”

“I should go, Q. He was pissed off at me and took it out on you. That’s not acceptable.”

“Wait, you think he cursed Q because you couldn’t…” Margo’s eyes widened, realizing she’d almost outed Eliot on his  _ extremely rare  _ problem. Even though he’d made it up this time to throw her off, he glared warningly at her. She made a  _ well, fuck me  _ gesture with her hands, as something akin to an apology washed over her face, there and gone. “Anyway, talk about thirsty for it. Jesus. Glad it wasn’t me, though.”

“Look, I’d rather just go,” Quentin said, looking up at Eliot with pleading eyes.

“Why? You don’t even know him.”

Quentin sighed heavily. “Eliot, it’s fucking embarrassing, okay? I really don’t want you knowing more than you already do.”

Margo’s jaw dropped. “Q, did he… did he curse your dick?” She looked like she might start laughing at any moment, and Eliot widened his eyes in warning. Quentin would never come out of his room if they teased him over this. 

“Bambi, I just told you his blood was cursed,” he reminded her, trying to shove his own curiosity aside. Quentin  _ was  _ acting a little too cagey about this. 

“Yeah, but blood curses can affect specific parts of the body. I read about a guy who had his sinuses cursed and just wept snot for, like, a decade.”

“You are so unbelievably gross,” he breathed, bringing his hand up to massage his temples. He loved Margo dearly, but sometimes she was just so  _ crass.  _

“Seriously, though, did he curse your dick?” she asked, crossing her arms. 

Eliot was stunned when Quentin very faintly nodded, his eyes focused on the table.

“Fuck, are you serious?” he asked softly. 

“I really don’t want to talk about it,” Quentin said in a tight voice.

Eliot patted him on the shoulder without thinking, but thankfully, he didn’t wince this time. “I’m going now. This is fucking ridiculous.”

“Eliot--”

“No arguments. He’s going to hear exactly what I think of this, and he’ll be fucking lucky if I don’t go to Henry about it.”

Margo looked quietly victorious about something Eliot didn’t want to acknowledge as he left the dining area to find a pair of his spare shoes tucked into one of the various cubbies around the common room. He was out the front door in seconds, setting a brisk pace as he left the lawn of the Physical Kids Cottage for the main campus. 

The Nature Treehouse was on the opposite corner of the entire Brakebills property, and Eliot was forced to eventually slow his pace. He didn’t want to arrive sweating and out of breath for such a confrontation. He wanted the upper hand and knew his looks and height gave it to him by default, usually. (The fact that he tended to flock towards anxious, submissive boys didn’t hurt, either.)

Climbing up the rickety set of wooden stairs that led up into the Treehouse, Eliot let himself in the front door, squinting his eyes against the wall of marjuana smoke that assailed him. Hadn’t these people heard of opening a window?

There weren’t many people in the open area that served as the first floor of the Treehouse--it was still fairly early--but he was easily given directions to Ethan’s room with nothing more than a request and a suggestive look given to a first year pruning a potted plant at the kitchen table. 

Making his way to the second floor, Eliot located a vibrant green door and knocked sharply against it. A few moments later, he heard a muffled thud from the other side of the door and waited for Ethan to open it. 

Eliot had his glare set to annihilate when Ethan’s face was revealed through the crack in the door, and the smirk that bloomed on the man’s face made his telekinesis itch for release. 

“Good morning, Eliot,” he said, letting the door swing open. “Anything I can help you with?”

“Cut the shit, Ethan.”

“Oh,  _ now  _ he remembers my name,” he laughed. “I guess you’re here about Coldwater?”

“Where the hell did you learn blood magic?”

Ethan shrugged. “My family’s passed it down for centuries, but I don’t know much, honestly. And it’ll wear off in a day or two; it’s not like it’s gonna kill him.”

“That’s good to hear, but until then, he’s in pain.”

Ethan chuckled. “Only if his dick gets hard.”

Eliot blinked. Blinked again. “Wait,  _ what?” _

“I figured putting the guy you really wanted out of commission for a day or two was revenge enough for me,” he said with a smirk. “Tell him to think pure thoughts, huh?”

Eliot’s own thoughts were reeling, recalling Quentin’s darting eyes as he’d looked over him in his robe, and the way he’d shivered this morning from his touch. Was it--possible? 

“Is there a way to reverse it?” Eliot asked, still sounding stern enough, but he could hear the thread of unsteadiness in his own voice. 

Ethan rolled his eyes. “I mean, yeah. It’s just an old family prank, really.” He stepped away from his doorway to walk towards his desk, ripping a sheet of notebook paper from a binder and jotting something down on it. Eliot tried not to think of what it meant, that he’d made Quentin’s dick hard (more than once), and he took the folded paper from Ethan’s hand once he offered it over. 

“Next time, maybe leave my friends out of your little revenge schemes, hm?” he asked. “I’m perfectly capable of accepting punishment on my own.”

Ethan’s smirk was pure sex--or would have been, if Eliot wasn’t entirely focused on someone else. “I’ve heard that about you.”

“Pity you’ll never find out,” he replied pleasantly, turning and leaving without another word. 

He waited until he was firmly on the ground outside of the Treehouse before he unfolded the sheet of paper, reading the spell needed to remove the curse from Quentin. “That’s it?” he mumbled, scoffing as he tucked the sheet of paper into the pocket of his shirt. He couldn’t believe how simple it was. All he had to do was brew lavender and eucalyptus into a tea, perform Popper 11 and McCabe 4 over it, and Quentin would be cured fifteen minutes after drinking it.  _ Even idiots can write spells, I guess,  _ he thought, shaking his head as he made the long trip across campus again. 

Entering the cottage, he only found Margo still downstairs and gave her a questioning look as she followed him into the kitchen.

“Oh, he fled as soon as you left,” she replied without him having to ask. Eliot sighed, opening the cabinet that was sort of a catch-all for spices, herbs, and random plant trimmings, either for spells or meal prep. Everything was neatly organized and labeled, thanks to Todd, and Eliot quickly located the components needed before setting a kettle on the stove to boil. “So, what’s wrong with his dick?” Margo asked.

Eliot didn’t  _ mean  _ to shoot her such a helpless look, but was unable to stop himself. He really didn’t know what to do with this newly discovered knowledge that he’d managed to turn Quentin on. After so many months of trying to deny he wanted Quentin, the possibility of his feelings being reciprocated was overwhelming. And it was still possible Quentin  _ didn’t  _ want him--maybe he was just excitable? 

“Okay, so I  _ may  _ have told the tiniest lie earlier,” he admitted, trying not to cower under Margo’s immediate scowl. “I didn’t actually have an issue with my  _ performance  _ last night.” Well… “Well. Not that kind, anyway.”

Margo said nothing, one eyebrow arching dangerously as she waited for him to continue. 

Eliot let out a trembling breath. “I called him Quentin.”

There was a small moment where Margo didn’t react at all, only staring at him blankly. Then he watched her mouth relax, her lips turning up, watched her struggle to hold her reaction in, and by the time she started cackling madly, Eliot was fully glaring at her. 

“I’m sorry!” she cried, brushing the tears carefully from her eyes. “I mean--I’m totally not, oh my god!” She bent in half, wheezing. Eliot turned away from her, focusing on the kettle, willing it to boil faster as he tried to tune out his supposed best friend’s laughter. The thing was, though--something about it hurt, and though Eliot tried to shove it down where all his other unpleasant emotions were caged, he found he couldn’t look at Margo by the time she managed to get herself under control. 

“Eliot?” 

Eliot could only shake his head slightly, refusing to answer. His throat felt tight and he felt utterly ridiculous about it. 

_ “Eliot.”  _ Margo stepped in front of him and he looked away from her, his jaw clenched. What the fuck was wrong with him? “Jesus, are you going to fucking cry?”

He forced his eyes to meet hers, and for all the harshness in her voice, Margo’s face was filled with concern. That was somehow worse, and Eliot had to use every ounce of his control to not start blubbering.

“I…” He took a deep breath, briefly closing his eyes. “For one, no. But Ethan put that spell on Q because of me, and then he told me that it was only hurting him when he started to... get hard. He would have been fine any other time.”

Margo’s eyes flared wide. “But…” 

Words were so often unnecessary between them. Eliot only nodded. 

Margo slapped his arm. “This is great!”

He frowned down at her. “How, exactly?”

“Uh, hello? Q totally wants to bang you!”

Hearing it out loud made Eliot feel dangerously shaky. “Or you,” he argued.

“Uh-uh. Yeah, he got all excited about the Penny talk, but it  _ also  _ hurt when  _ you _ touched him. At the very least, he wants to bang both of us.”

“Possibly, but what the hell do I do? He’s going to know I know about it when I take this to him, and what the fuck do I say?”

Margo gave him her patented look that clearly conveyed she wasn’t entirely sure why she loved him. “Okay, El. Real talk.” He cringed at the very idea, and she jabbed a finger against his chest. “None of that. I’ve watched you pine for months now.”

“Okay, that’s a stretch--”

“Is it really?” she interrupted, her eyebrows high. “And you take a boy upstairs for the first time in weeks, and you call him  _ Quentin?  _ You need to own up to this.”

“Own up to what?” he bit out, daring her to say it. 

“You want Q. You  _ only  _ want Q.” He started to shake his head, to deny any such thing, but Margo reached up to cup the sides of his face. “And that’s  _ okay. _ It’s not the end of the goddamn world.”

He inhaled deeply, his insides feeling flayed open. “Then, why does it feel like it?” he heard himself ask, his voice raw. 

Margo’s nails lightly scratched through his sideburns as she smiled softly up at him, a smile only he ever got to see. “Because someone--a nerdy little brat of a someone--wiggled their way past those walls of yours.”

“So did you.”

She shook her head. “Please. You opened the motherfucking gates for my greatness,” she told him, and he smiled because it was true. “That’s different. You don’t like things you don’t meticulously plan for, unless they’re narcotics. And I don’t think you  _ ever _ planned for this, but you like that boy, and now you have fucking proof he wants you back. If you don’t tell him, I’m going to have to actually murder you.”

“Bambi…”

“I’m serious,” she warned. “You deserve this, Eliot. Even if it’s different from the whatever fucked up thing you envisioned for yourself.”

“Excuse me, growing middling old with you and seducing men half our age while running a fabulous retreat was never a fucked up vision.”

She grinned. “Okay, fair. But I’m not going anywhere just because you caught feelings. You know that, right?” She shoved at his chest. “You better, anyway.”

The kettle whistled and Eliot stepped past her to remove it from the burner, turning the gas off before he began preparing the tea for Quentin. “I do know that, but I just don’t…” He sighed. “Q’s a  _ good person,  _ Margo.”

“And you’re not?” 

He scoffed, glancing at her over his shoulder. “Of course I’m not. I don’t… I’ll fuck this up. I’ll find a way, I know it. It’s what I do.”

Margo growled quietly. “I know you’re all heart-eyes around him, but has it ever occurred to you that Q’s kind of a fuck up, too?”

“What?” Eliot left the leaves and petals to steep in the mug of hot water, turning to face her.

“He can be a total bitch,” she replied. “He’s petty, whiny, and sometimes so goddamn pedantic I wanna choke him until he just shuts up.”

“Jesus,” Eliot muttered. “And here I thought you liked him.”

“I love the little idiot,” she admitted, giving Eliot a warning glance before he could even fully show his shock over  _ that  _ word. He promptly forced his face to relax, allowing her to continue. “He’s also a lot of great things I’m not going to stand here and gush about, because I could never hope to outdo you. He’s great, but he’s not perfect. Same as you.”

“Rude. I’m perfect in every way,” he said with a crooked smirk, though he knew he was feeling far too fond of Margo at the moment to pull it off. She rolled her eyes, stepping forward to lean against his chest, and he easily folded her into his arms. 

“Just talk to him, okay? I’m really fucking tired of all the longing looks between the two of you. It’s gross.”

“I’ll try, okay? But considering I’ve never done this in my life, keep your expectations set to low.”

Margo laughed. “Fine. I’ll be in my room if I’m needed.” She gave him a sly look. “But I hope it’s not for a few hours, at least.”

The comment did nothing for Eliot’s nerves, and he decided a tray was a good idea to take Quentin’s tea up to him; he wasn't confident he wouldn’t spill it without one. He was grateful the common room was still empty as he made his way up to the second floor--he felt like a glorified butler with the tray in his hands. 

Knocking on Quentin’s door, he barely heard the man’s voice calling for him to come in. Eliot took a deep breath before opening the door, finding Quentin sitting up on his bed, his eyes already wide and wary as he watched Eliot step into the room. 

“So, it’s really as simple as some tea,” Eliot explained, placing the tray on Quentin’s nightstand and handing the mug off to him, ignoring the distrustful look in his brown eyes. He was ready to bolt already, and Eliot couldn’t blame him. It really would be easier to run. But while he was certain he’d make a lovely corpse, he wasn’t quite ready for Margo to murder him, and if he passed up this opportunity to finally be honest about something for once, to actually reach for something he wanted… well, he’d deserve it, wouldn’t he?

Quentin stared down into the mug as Eliot took a seat next to him on the bed, far enough away to give him his space. He had evidence he affected Quentin in some way, yes, but it still didn’t  _ mean  _ anything, not unless Quentin confirmed it himself. “Is this gonna make me throw up?”

Eliot smiled. “No, it’s just regular tea for the most part, but I don’t think I would have combined these specific ingredients.”

Quentin nodded, taking a cautious sip of the liquid and grimacing a bit. “It’s, um. Strong. I’m not a big fan of tea, though.” He took another drink before resting the mug in the palm of one hand. “Thanks. For bringing it.”

It was a clear dismissal, but Eliot pretended not to notice. “It was nothing. And I don’t think Ethan will be bothering you again.”

“That’s, uh, great. I still don’t get why he decided to fuck with me in the first place.”

There was an opening if Eliot had ever heard one. “That… that’s my fault, actually.” He forced his hands apart where they had begun to wring themself together across his thighs, grateful that Quentin was focused on finishing his tea and not looking directly at him. “I did something pretty stupid last night. Not a surprise, but I didn’t mean for you to be involved.”

Eliot looked up to find Quentin regarding him with confusion that was very obviously warring with his reluctance to keep discussing this. “I thought you were just--you know. I’m sorry, but I’m not really understanding how fucking around with him led to…” He gestured at himself, his face reddening, and he quickly turned his attention to the drink in his hand again, finishing it off and setting the mug aside with a grimace. 

“Well. You sort of came up, is the thing?” Eliot hadn’t meant to phrase it as a question, but couldn’t seem to control the pitch of his voice suddenly. He watched Quentin’s brow twitch as he processed the information.

“Um. How? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking? I just--I’m not getting it, Eliot. And if it’s your fault, should I be pissed at you? Because honestly, this has fucking sucked.”

“Q, I’m sorry.” Eliot wanted to reach for him, but didn’t quite dare. Besides, the tea was going to take time to fully work, and while he wasn’t conceited enough to think his every touch would affect Quentin, he also wasn’t willing to chance putting him in pain. 

“Why, was it like some kind of joke between the two of you?”

_ “No,”  _ Eliot said, more loudly than he’d intended, and Quentin flinched a bit, leaning away from him. “Quentin, I would never… I know I tease you. More than I should, but you have to know I wouldn’t hurt you, right?”

Quentin sighed raggedly, but nodded. “Yeah, El. I know that. I just don’t  _ get  _ it. I know he probably told you what the, um, problem is, and I’m just feeling fucking defensive about it, okay?”

“Okay. As long as you know. And I’m struggling a bit here, too, so just know that.”

Quentin frowned, and Eliot was filled with warm affection when his eyes clouded with concern. “He didn’t do something to you, did he? Fuck, I didn’t even  _ ask.” _

“He didn’t,” Eliot assured him. “I mean, besides putting me in this position,” he laughed humorlessly, forcing himself to look Quentin in the eye. “Ethan cursed you because I made him jealous.”

Quentin’s frown deepened, and Eliot struggled not to close the distance between them and kiss the wrinkle in his brow. “Of me? How?” A chuckle escaped him and he smiled ruefully, “I can’t even think of something he’d be jealous about. I was, like, hiding in a corner more than I usually do last night, and he literally went upstairs with you? What was there to be jealous about?”

“It was more the reason I took him upstairs,” Eliot admitted, fear tightening his throat, making the words hard to force out. “It was shitty, but I thought it’d be fine because he wouldn’t know and we’d both get what we wanted. But I was a little more fucked up than I thought, and I--slipped.”

“Slipped?” Quentin shook his head, looking almost annoyed by his confusion at this point.

“I--He just had really pretty hair, and I wanted to--to pretend for just a little bit…” His throat did close up then, and Eliot swallowed, forcing himself to go on. “I said your name, Q. Right in the middle of it.”

It seemed to take a moment for Eliot’s words to filter into Quentin’s brain and he watched his friend’s expression go blank with shock before his eyebrows rose. Then, a whole array of things started happening with his face that Eliot couldn’t quite follow. More confusion, definitely, but other, more subtle emotions he couldn’t quite pin down. Finally, his eyes widened and he  _ looked  _ at Eliot in a way that punched the breath out of him, all innocent bewitching eyes and parted lips, and--

Then he doubled over with a whimper. 

“Q?” Eliot was fully aware of why Quentin was suddenly in pain, but it made it no less alarming to watch.

“Um, so I don’t think the tea worked,” he mumbled at his knees. 

Eliot ignored the nearly painful flare of hope he felt welling inside him. “It--it takes a bit. I’m sorry.” He awkwardly rested his hand on Quentin’s shoulder, relieved when it wasn’t shrugged off. 

Quentin laughed softly, still curled into a ball. “Yeah, maybe not the best time to tell me I played a part in your sex fantasy, but um, points for honesty?”

Eliot coughed out a surprised laugh. Could it really have been this easy the whole time? He hadn’t told Quentin everything, no--he wasn’t honestly sure he could without hiding in his room for a solid week afterwards, but he’d never expected them to be able to laugh about it. “I’ll try to keep that in mind for the next ten minutes or so,” he promised, “but there’s honestly a catalog to run through if we’re discussing fantasies, so I’m not sure I can hold myself to it.”

“Christ,” Quentin muttered. After a moment he slowly uncurled himself and the soft, shy smile on his stupidly perfect lips made it nearly impossible for Eliot not to lean forward and kiss him. “So.” His eyes darted around, and he laughed again. “You know, I don’t think there’s anything I can ask right now that I’m not going to pay for.”

Eliot tried to hold in his own laughter, because this was just all so ridiculous. “I could--go? Come back later?”

He felt Quentin’s hand on his leg, squeezing slightly, and just that small touch was enough to make Eliot tremble. God, he was pathetic; Quentin had made him  _ pathetic.  _

“Don’t?” Quentin asked him, and Eliot nodded so quickly it was embarrassing. “I-I think if you leave, I’ll somehow convince myself you didn’t really just tell me that. I mean, I still don’t know what it actually  _ means,  _ but…” 

“Well, to be honest, neither do I.”

“Oh.” Quentin looked somehow disappointed by the confession, trying to cover it with a wry smile that made Eliot just feel  _ tired  _ somehow as his eyes flickered away to focus elsewhere. Because Quentin would take whatever explanation he gave him, but he clearly wanted  _ something.  _ “I--I mean, that’s fine. I guess it’s pretty clear that I’m, uh--that I  _ like  _ you at this point. I didn’t really get a choice of keeping that to myself, so w-we don’t really have to--”

“You like me?”

Quentin’s eyes cut to his, and he wore that same look he had when he’d discovered Eliot had never read Harry Potter and had only seen two Star Wars movies, like he actually couldn’t process the words he was hearing. “I… Eliot, I think that’s fairly fucking obvious, don’t you?” he asked, his eyes darkening in a way that told Eliot he was feeling defensive again.

“No,” he said immediately. “It’s obvious I can make your dick hard. I can do that to a lot of people, and they don’t necessarily like me at all.” 

The softening of Quentin’s eyes tempted Eliot to call the whole conversation off before it could really get rolling, because how could he  _ look at him  _ like that? Quentin was just so  _ genuine  _ he felt burned by it. 

“Well, okay. Fine. I like you.” He shrugged, trying to appear casual about it, and it was goddamn adorable, because ‘casual’ was the last word Eliot would have ever used to describe him, and the longer Eliot didn’t respond, the twitchier he became. “So, are you gonna, like, say anything?” he finally asked, clearly unable to stop himself. “Because I get sexuality, is just, like, super weird, and it’s fine if you pretended that guy was me--I don’t have to read into it, but I’d like to know we’re okay with you knowing all this, because I’m starting to freak out a little.”

Eliot’s face trembled with effort as he tried not to laugh, but he managed to keep his expression calm as he studied Quentin’s face. “What’s freaking you out?”

Quentin laughed, shaky and somewhat breathless. “El, are you serious? We’re… you’re like my best friend. Which is exactly why I never wanted you to know-- _ any  _ of this. I know I told you about Julia, how I felt about her for a long time. And I could have ruined that. I almost did. I was so goddamn jealous of James, and it was just ridiculous. I don’t know why she put up with me.” His eyes were pleading with Eliot to understand before he looked away, focusing on his bedspread. “Don’t say anything, but you’re honestly a better friend to me than she is these days, and I can’t fuck that up. So, I just want you to know it’s  _ fine.  _ I’ve, uh, felt this way for, um, awhile? And I know you’re not exactly someone who’s interested in having a boyfriend or whatever, and I respect that. Everyone’s different, but I’m just--I’m not like that? So telling you always felt kind of pointless, anyway. I can be--intense, or so I’ve been told. A few times. And I totally get you’re not like that. So.” Quentin took a deep breath, finally going silent. 

Eliot found himself stuck on the word  _ boyfriend.  _ Quentin wanted… 

Seeing Quentin looking at him pointedly, waiting for him to respond and looking very close to actually panicking, Eliot forced himself to speak. “Um.”  _ Boyfriend?  _ “So--okay. We can upack all of that.”

“You don’t have to,” Quentin told him, shaking his head. “I get that it’s not something--”

“Q, can you let me talk? For maybe, like, a second?” Eliot pleaded, trying to hide his terror and only show the fondness he felt in his eyes. He wasn’t sure he was successful.

“Um. Sure.” Quentin’s hands fisted together in his lap and he looked like he was waiting for his turn in front of a firing squad. Eliot knew he was already preparing himself to be rejected, and it broke him a little. 

“Thank you. I’ll start with the easy part. You’re my best friend, too.” Quentin smiled a little crookedly, blushing, but he still kept his eyes focused ahead, not looking his way. “I have Margo, and she’s--well, she’s everything to me, but I don’t talk to her the way you and I talk. It’s different, is all.” He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “And pretending it was you in my room last night wasn’t an experiment, or some whim I thought would be fun in the moment. It was--just as close as I thought I could get. To you.”

Quentin did turn then, eyes wide with surprise, and Eliot had to look away this time, his eyes trailing down the sleeve of Quentin’s shirt, to his hairy forearm and his sturdy, beautiful hands. “I didn’t want to lose you,” he confessed. “Like you said, I’m not really, um, boyfriend material. I knew if I acted on what I wanted, I’d fuck it up. I’d hurt you, and then I wouldn’t have any part of you at all.” He laughed softly. “And there was also the part where I didn’t think you were interested, but I guess Ethan cleared that up, at least.”

Quentin rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’ll send him a card,” he snarked, but there was a hint of humor in his eyes that made Eliot smile warmly at him. “And El. I didn’t say you weren’t ‘boyfriend material.’ I said you didn’t want a boyfriend. So maybe don’t put words in my mouth.”

Eliot nodded. “Fair. In exchange? Maybe don’t assume what I want.”

He didn’t miss the flash of shock in Quentin’s eyes when he chanced looking, even though it was quickly replaced with something far more sardonic. “Really? I can quote, like, at least a dozen different ways you’ve said exactly that.”

Eliot shrugged, as casual as ever, though he had to look away again, this time focusing on the curve of Quentin’s ear, slightly pinker than usual. “In none of those conversations were we discussing you, though, so my point stands.”

“Is--does that make a difference?”

His voice was so quiet, Eliot had to look, and the quiet hope he saw in Quentin’s eyes made him warm all over. “I think so, yeah. I honestly don’t know anything about having a--well, that.”

“You can’t even say it, and you’re calling me out for making assumptions?”

Eliot glared at him, though he was pretty sure he was feeling too tender at the moment for it to hold any real heat. “Fine, Quentin,” he said, exaggerating his enunciation. “I have very little experience when it comes to having a  _ boyfriend.  _ Better?”

Quentin’s resulting smirk was bratty as fuck and Eliot wanted to  _ bite it.  _ “Much. Thank you for your effort.”

Eliot was suddenly grateful Ethan hadn’t cursed him, or he’d be writhing in the floor. “Oh, you’re about to see effort, if this works out the way I want.”

It was his turn to smirk as Quentin’s brow twitched in alarm. “Y-You--want?”

He nodded, leaning forward just enough to smooth a piece of Quentin’s hair behind his ear, letting his fingers trail over his neck on their way down. “I do. I can’t promise I won’t fuck it all up, Q. But I’ve known for a while you weren’t someone I could just walk away from.” He forced himself to meet Quentin’s eyes. “That’s really all I can give you right now. If it’s not enough, I--”

Quentin kissed him. 

It was clumsy, catching Eliot on the corner of his mouth before Quentin’s lips moved, pressing against his fully,  _ perfectly,  _ warm and wanting, and without thinking, Eliot’s hands cupped Quentin’s face, putting him where he wanted and taking control, his tongue parting the seam of Quentin’s lips and relishing in the pained sound he made when their tongues met. 

“Wait, wait,” Eliot whispered, realizing and pulling away slightly. “Is this hurting you?”

Quentin shook his head, pulling Eliot back by the neck, and okay,  _ hot.  _

Eliot had imagined kissing Quentin a lot--like a ridiculous amount, really--but he was still surprised by how  _ good  _ it was, how Quentin opened to him so easily, warm and wet and so eager, needy little sounds escaping him as licked against Eliot’s tongue and scraped his teeth against Eliot’s lower lip. It was far more confident than he’d been expecting, like Quentin  _ knew  _ he was good at it, and something about that set Eliot’s blood on fire. 

The intensity of the kiss grew quickly, the months of longing building into something near frantic, until Eliot found himself pulling at Quentin, needing him close but not willing to break their kiss long enough to be graceful about it. Their teeth clacked almost painfully against each other as Quentin fumbled his way into Eliot’s lap, forcing him to scoot back away from the edge of the bed so the man didn’t topple onto the floor. He grabbed possessively at Quentin’s hips, forcing them down and gasping when Quentin moaned against his mouth at the feel of Eliot, hard against him. Quentin wanted this; wanted  _ him.  _

“Tell me what you want, Q,” he said softly, nibbling at his lip, his hands working their way under Quentin’s soft t-shirt, sliding up his ribs. 

Quentin kissed him again, and Eliot thought perhaps he was too shy to answer, even if the kiss itself bordered on pornographic with the way Quentin sucked on his tongue. But eventually he did draw back just enough to rest their foreheads together, taking a moment to catch his breath. “What were you doing? When you--when you said my name last night?”

Eliot pulled back to look at Quentin’s face and almost wished he hadn’t when he caught sight of his blown pupils, hazy with lust, and his kiss-swollen lips. It made him want to pin Quentin to the bed and never let him out of his sight, but there was also something beneath that urge, something fragile that he couldn’t quite linger on, something wrapped in the fact that he wouldn’t really mind having this view every single day for…

Eliot blinked, smiling reflexively, reaching to smooth Quentin’s hair away from his face to ground himself in the moment. “I wasn’t really doing anything but getting my dick sucked,” he admitted, but then remembered, and his hands moved to comb Quentin’s hair back. “And this. I took him to my room because he said I could play with his hair while I fucked his mouth.”

Quentin’s eyebrows rose just slightly. “That’s what you wanted?”

“Quentin, have you  _ seen _ your mouth?” Eliot asked, his words triggering a dark blush to color Quentin’s skin.  _ Lovely.  _ “And yes. That’s what I wanted, at least last night. But like I said before, there’s a catalog of things I want to do; I’ve had a lot of time to think. Right now, I want to know what  _ you  _ want, though.”

Eliot was distracted as Quentin’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, but was drawn back into the moment when he spoke. “I think I want that.”

Before he could respond, Quentin was moving, leaving his lap and standing from the bed, pulling at Eliot’s hands. Eliot moved towards the edge of the bed again, eyes widening when he felt Quentin’s hands at the front of his pants. “Q, you don’t have to,” he managed to speak. He wasn’t prepared for this, for Quentin wanting to touch  _ him.  _ He thought they’d make out for a while, until he’d worked Quentin up enough to want more. He hadn’t really expected for Quentin to be making any kind of first move, not this time. 

“I want to,” Quentin mumbled, his eyes dark as he leaned in to brush a kiss across Eliot’s lips, and he felt the button of his pants come free. “I mean, it won’t in any way be better, I’m pretty sure, but if that’s what you want, I-I can do that. I want to."

“Um. Have you ever?” 

He felt more than saw Quentin shake his head. “No. I jerked a guy off once at a party, but I barely remember it. That’s the extent of my experience. But, uh,” Eliot felt Quentin exhale shakily, his breath warm against his chin, “you’re not the only one who’s had some fantasies.”

Eliot was shocked into silence, but he could feel his cock already weeping at the implication that Quentin had thought of this,  _ wanted  _ this; God, what if he’d jerked off to it? He wanted to ask, he wanted to hear every dirty thing that Quentin had envisioned, but at the moment, he could barely even lift his hips to assist Quentin in pulling down his pants and silk briefs in one motion, watching Quentin blink as his cock sprang free. He didn’t look panicked--exactly--but Eliot still felt the need to draw him close again, to kiss him more gently than they had before. With the way Quentin sighed through it, he felt he’d made the right choice. He couldn’t have Q getting all in his head over this. 

“Do you care to take your shirt off?” he asked, his hands slipping under the hem and sliding over his velvety skin. “I want to see you.”

“If I can see you too.”

Eliot chuckled. “Oh, have you not seen enough of me?” he teased, but Quentin only sucked at his lip in response before pulling back and removing his shirt, his hair a little wild as he tossed it to the floor. 

Eliot was very obvious in letting his eyes roam, taking in the curves of Quentin’s biceps, surprisingly muscular shoulders, and biteable nipples. He wanted to see more, wanted to feel the hair around Quentin’s cute little belly button and follow it down…

“El.”

“Hmm?”

Quentin huffed out a laugh, resting his hands on Eliot’s bare knees. “Take your shirt off?”

Eliot smirked at him but complied, making sure he didn’t mess up his curls in the process as he set the shirt aside. He watched Quentin’s eyes drift across his chest and his hands moved to follow, sliding up Eliot’s stomach and scratching through his chest hair as Quentin kissed him again, his hands roaming restlessly as his tongue licked past Eliot’s lips, and Eliot let his own hands slide up Quentin’s arms, gently kneading until he reached his neck, holding him firmly in place as he deepened the kiss, and Quentin’s broken moan went straight to his aching cock. 

“Do you like this?” he murmured softly, tightening his hold on Quentin’s jaw just slightly as he tugged on his lip with his teeth.

“Uh… uh-huh.”

Eliot smiled, because he’d already guessed this about Quentin--he’d never argued about Eliot putting him where he wanted him, whether it was telling him to move to another sofa or bullying him gently to lay across his lap during a movie. Even when it was Eliot bulldozing his own way into Quentin’s space, he always allowed Eliot to arrange him with little more than an annoyed sigh when he was reading or trying to study. Still, having it confirmed that this behavior translated in such a wonderful way was a joy. 

“El, I want…”

Eliot hummed happily, nibbling a path down Quentin’s chin and across his jaw. “Tell me.”

Quentin said nothing, and Eliot’s breath hitched as he felt the man’s hand curl around his cock and begin to move, his touch shy for a moment, but gaining confidence once Eliot kissed him deeply, thrusting his tongue into his mouth. Quentin leaned into the kiss with a short whimper, melting against him, and Eliot felt something in him shatter quietly, broken in the face of Quentin’s utter abandon. He wanted to pull Quentin back into his lap, map every inch of him with his tongue and fingers until he sobbed for release.

He was about to do just that--Q could learn to blow him later--when Quentin sank to his knees, his tongue lapping at the head of Eliot’s cock, and he instantly forgot his own plans. 

He wasn’t sure how many times he’d imagined this--enough to try to recreate it with someone else, at least--but Eliot was in awe of the picture Quentin made as he began to bob slowly down on his cock, his perfect lips stretched around it and his long lashes dusting his cheekbones. Fuck, he was perfect, and so  _ eager,  _ sliding down to meet his fingers still wrapped around the base.

“Don’t choke, Q,” he managed to advise, his voice rough as he reached to brush Quentin’s hair back from his face. “Fuck, you’re pretty.”

Quentin moaned around him, setting a careful pace with his mouth and hand, obviously not quite sure of himself, but Eliot had an idea for that. He wound his fingers in Quentin’s hair. “You want me to show you?” 

Quentin did his best to nod with a mouthful of cock, going still immediately. Eliot tugged gently at the hair gathered in his hands, pulling him back and letting him breathe before he moved his hips forward slowly, sinking into the warm wetness of his mouth. “This better?” he asked as he held Quentin still; he made the most beautiful little sound in response, pitchy and desperate. “Look at me?” 

Eliot didn’t think Quentin would manage it--his already flushed face immediately went darker. But after a moment his eyes opened, gazing up at Eliot through those stupidly thick lashes of his, and the sight nearly sent him over the edge. His hips jerked, almost too rough until he managed to catch himself, pushing slowly into Quentin’s waiting mouth instead, but the  _ look  _ Q gave him--sly and knowing, was just too much. “Oh, don’t get cocky with me,” he warned with a fond grin, pulling at the hair fisted in his hand to force his head back further.

Quentin looked overjoyed by the pressure, his eyes fluttering shut, and Eliot gasped as he did something fucking _amazing_ with his tongue that caused his eyes to roll. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned, embarrassed by the endearment that had slipped out, but forgetting it when Quentin _whined_ around his cock, pulling against Eliot’s hold in his hair. “You want me? Want me to fuck that pretty mouth of yours?” Quentin hummed his assent and Eliot couldn’t _believe this._ “O-Okay. Squeeze my leg if you need me to stop, okay?” Quentin only looked up at him, and Eliot knew that look well, a very clear _get on it with it._ He laughed, bemused, before thrusting deep without warning, setting a slow but brutal pace as he fucked Q’s mouth in earnest. Quentin took it beautifully, his mouth flooding until it was leaking past his lips and down his chin, and the _sounds_ he made, like he was starving for it. Eliot couldn’t take his eyes off of him, even though the sight wasn’t doing anything for his control. 

When Eliot did come, he was completely caught off guard by it, a groan torn from his lips as he spilled down Quentin’s throat, nothing else existing for him for a long, perfect moment. When reality did begin to filter back in, he found he was petting Quentin’s hair in a distracted apology as he pulled off, coughing quietly against his knee.

“Fuck,” Eliot panted. “Q, I’m sorry. You okay? C’mere.”

Quentin was smiling as he gave into the pull of Eliot’s hands on him, letting himself be pulled up to his feet. He moaned loudly when Eliot immediately scraped his teeth over a nipple, his hands unbuttoning his jeans and tugging them down his hips, along with his adorable plaid boxers. He smiled as he felt Q’s hands hovering around his head, uncertain. “You can touch me,” he told him, smiling when the man’s hands immediately sank into his hair, quickly followed by all of Quentin trying to crawl into his lap again. “Waitwaitwait,” Eliot laughed, holding him off long enough to push at his jeans some more, and Quentin backed away to rip them off, kicking them aside before scrambling onto the bed again, leaving Eliot no time at all to appreciate the view. 

Having a lap full of naked boy was prize enough, however, especially with how frantic he was now, kissing and biting at Eliot’s lips and thrusting against his stomach.  _ Jesus.  _

“You like sucking me off, baby?” he whispered as Quentin’s mouth worked its way down his neck. 

_ “Eliot.” _

“You were so good at it,” he continued, delighting in the little grunt Q made in response, and the ragged moan that punched out of him when Eliot wrapped his hand around his cock. But he needed to  _ see,  _ so he pushed Quentin back just a bit, looking him up and down as he tugged gently on his cock, which was just as pretty as the rest of him, average in length but thick enough to be a mouthful. Looking up into Quentin’s eyes, he seemed almost in pain, his eyebrows drawn together as he tried to keep his eyes focused. “You wanna come on me?”

Those brown eyes widened just a little, and then Quentin was nodding. Eliot smiled, tightening his grip, his other hand squeezing at one perfect little ass cheek, encouraging Q to move and his fingers tightened in Eliot’s curls as he fucked into his hand.

It only took seconds with Quentin already so worked up, and Eliot sighed happily as he watched him come across his chest and stomach, working him through it until he went lax, his head dropping to Eliot’s shoulder as he tried to catch his breath. 

Eliot spelled away the mess, cradling Quentin’s head in his hand. “You okay?”

Quentin laughed softly against him. “Okay?” He leaned back to smile, his dimples creasing the corners of his mouth. “El, that was…” He shook his head, looking away. 

“What was it?” Eliot asked, genuinely curious. “Good, bad, different? You can tell me.” 

“It was amazing,” he admitted softly, resting his forehead against Eliot’s, his arms looped over his shoulders. “I just… it was nice that I didn’t have to think?”

“Do you usually think a lot during sex?” Eliot asked, trying to keep the teasing tone from his voice.

“Only, like, constantly,” he replied, and Eliot tried very hard not to melt as Quentin’s lips brushed the tip of his nose in a sweet kiss. 

“Well, I’ll try very hard to make sure you can’t think of your own name next time,” he promised. 

“I like that there’s a next time,” Quentin admitted with a shy smile. 

“Oh, it’s coming sooner than you think,” Eliot told him, ignoring the fear that tried to swell within him, playfully pushing Q down onto the bed. “But first, I think we deserve a nap, don’t you?”

Quentin nodded, already blinking slowly, and Eliot reclined at his side, pulling him close and using his telekinesis to pull a blanket over them. Before he fell asleep, he took a quick selfie of his ruined hair and sent it to Margo before setting his phone aside with a smile.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
